A Crowded Marriage (9 page)

“Oh. Thank you.”

“That's quite a dress, Imogen,” he murmured, his eyes roaming over me appreciatively.

“Thanks. It's Eleanor's.”

“Is it? Well, it doesn't look like that on her. I'd have remembered.”

Right. Perhaps not gay. Perhaps very straight, so perhaps I could have an affair with him? That would be neat, wouldn't it? If a little yuk-a-roo.

“Sorry to be boring, Imogen, but we're a bit of a nonsmoking house. It's Mummy, I'm afraid.”

“Oh. Sorry.” I looked around wildly for somewhere to put it out, and for Piers's mother, who was no doubt already fixing me with a steely glare.

“Oh, finish it now you've lit it. She's not here tonight. No, I just meant for future reference. Tell you what, come and meet Robert and Pamela Ferrers. They're terribly nice. Farmers.”

Farmers, right. By that I knew he meant landowners. Gentry. Probably the High Sheriff and his wife. He guided me across to a tall, thin couple in the corner.

“This is Imogen, Alex's wife. They're taking Shepherd's Cottage,” Piers was saying.

Alex's wife. Always Alex's wife, never Imogen Cameron, she's a wonderful artist, you must see her paintings. Oh, stop it, Imogen. Stop carping.

Pamela was haughty and imperious-looking with a hawklike nose down which she peered from her great height. I instantly warmed to her though when she affected a mock cockney accent. “'Ello, luv, I'm Pamela.”

“Ooh, 'ello, pet, I'm Imogen!” I grinned.

“You settlin' in nicely, then?”

I gulped. Flushed to my roots. Shit. She spoke like that. Except it wasn't a cockney accent, it was a strong West Country accent. Her husband was watching me closely. Piers looked aghast.

“Y-yeah. We are.”

“Tha's nice. Tha's a grand little cottage you got therre. A peach of a place, my Barb always says, don't you, Barb?”

Bob didn't answer. He was staring at me.

“Ooh, it's that orright,” I faltered, reddening under his gaze. “A—a peach!” Oh, that the ground would swallow me up. I knew, though, that if I wasn't to offend her, or her beady-eyed husband, I had to continue in this bucolic vein. All night, if need be.

“Tha's lovely soil you got down there,” Pamela was saying sagely, tapping my arm. “Drains well an' all. Lovely an' loamy.”

“Mmm…ooh, it is. Loamy!”

She looked rather quizzical, hopefully puzzled by lack of small talk and not my peculiar accent. Oh God, please don't let her ask me where I was from. Could I bluff my way, agriculturally speaking, through my humble rural origins on some smallholding in Somerset, perhaps? Or was she au fait with every smallholding there was from here to Land's End? Knew every farmer and their straw-chewing daughters? Weren't they all related, these people? Or was that Norfolk? Piers, happily, was alive to the pitfalls, and was steering me away, saving my bacon.

“And you haven't met the Middletons either,” he said loudly, walking me across the room to a new set of faces.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “So much.”

“My pleasure,” he growled. “Now this is Tom and Sandra Middleton. More tenant farmers.”

“Got it,” I breathed as the Middletons broke off their conversation to smile interestedly.
Tenant
farmers. The real McCoy. Not landowning gentry stalking around waving shooting sticks and barking orders, but proper, rustic folk, getting their hands dirty. Sandra Middleton, petite and pretty, smiled and extended her hand.

“Hi.”

My fingers still clenched my cigarette, which had gone out ages ago and was now a dead butt. I looked around wildly for an ashtray but there wasn't one, so I popped it in my open handbag.

“Hi,” I grinned, and took her hand.

“Ah, more fellow soil tillers!” said Tom cheerfully as I shook hands with him too. Piers had moved on to greet some late arrivals coming through the door, both about ninety and on two sticks apiece. Where was his wife while all this meeting and greeting was going on? Still propping up the fireplace with my husband, no doubt.

Tom had to repeat his opening gambit.

“Hmm? Oh, no, we're not farmers,” I laughed. “We've just taken one of the cottages for a few months. We're going back to London in September,” I added firmly.

“Oh, really?” Tom looked surprised, but Sandra, clearly delighted to have first crack at some new blood, was busily filling me in on her role as helper at the local playgroup. Anxious not to make any more blunders, I found myself blithely agreeing that I might well come in to help the little ones with their reading, and maybe even take charge of the Show and Tell table, until Sandra was practically hyperventilating with excitement. Suddenly she rested a cool hand on my arm.

“God, you're smoking.”

“I know, I've already been told off by Piers, but someone else is too.” The man with the curls I'd secretly christened Heathcliff was puffing away by the open French window. I caught his eye and glanced away quickly.

“No, your bag.” I glanced down, and saw to my horror that the little straw bag on my arm was on fire. Smoke was pouring from it and flames were even now licking the bamboo handle.

“Oh!”

Instinctively I shook it off. It smouldered brightly on the carpet. “Oh God—quick!”

In one swift movement, a man's arm reached across, picked up the handle, and flicked it deftly into the fire, between Eleanor and Alex's legs. I remember their faces, turning as one, in horror.

“What the hell…?” Alex looked aghast.

“Oh God, I'm so sorry!”

“Anything precious in there?” Tom Middleton was jabbing at the burning bag with a poker. A bit of a crowd had gathered.

“No, just a lipstick, but—oh God, Eleanor, your carpet!”

All heads swivelled like a Wimbledon crowd to look at the nasty dark patch in the Persian rug.

“Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. It's ancient.” She tripped lightly across and rubbed it with her toe. “It's only singed. Adds character. And look, I can flip this one over it.” She deftly pulled a smaller fireside rug to cover the burn. “There. He'll be none the wiser.” She glanced across at Piers who, happily, was still busy with the octogenarians. “It'll be our secret,” she giggled. “Anyway, I've never really liked it.”

Alex was by my side now. “What the hell are you up to?” he hissed.

“I put a cigarette butt in my bag. It obviously hadn't quite gone out.”

“Obviously! Why didn't you find an ashtray?”

“Because there wasn't one. And I would have thrown it in the fire,” I snarled suddenly, “but you and Eleanor were hogging it!”

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” he snapped, “don't be so childish. Come on, we're going in to dinner.”

Seething quietly we walked silently together into the dining room, following the flow. It was a beautiful room, the walls hung with dark red silk and ancestral portraits, and tonight, lit entirely by candles, which shimmered in a sea of polished mahogany and silver and white roses. There were appreciative murmurs all round as we were shown to our seats, and I had the feeling people felt rather honoured to be here. I remembered Eleanor saying something about a duty party.

It looked for a moment as if I had Piers on my right and the old man on two sticks on my left, but suddenly I saw Eleanor dart across to the twinkly-eyed gypsy, nod and whisper conspiratorially in my direction. In a moment the old boy had been spirited away, and in his place was Heathcliff. Irritated, I pulled my chair out, ignoring his attempt to do it for me, watching as Eleanor nipped back and directed Alex to sit next to her. She winked at me and I gave her a tight smile back. Oh, you think it's that easy, don't you? I thought as she turned to whisper something to Alex. Put the local stud on Imogen's right and she'll be happy. Meanwhile you can flirt your little socks off with my husband.

As I sat down I realised the pants were a big mistake. They were clearly made of cast iron and, as such, wouldn't bend. I caught my breath. Damn. I'd only ever worn them to a drinks party before.

“Pat Flaherty,” said my neighbour with a flashing smile, putting out his hand. His dark eyes glittered.

“Imogen Cameron,” I murmured, briefly taking his fingers before turning smartly to Piers, but not before I'd caught the surprise in his dark eyes and then a snort of laughter as I resolutely turned my back on him.

“So good of you to have us here,” I smiled ingratiatingly at my host, realising with horror, as I crossed my legs, that this ghastly dress was split to the thigh. It gave Pat whatever-his-name-was a bird's-eye view. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him twisting his head to get a better look. I plucked my napkin from my side plate, spread it over my leg and leaned forward.

“Well, terribly good of you to look after all the animals,” Piers brayed, spraying crumbs as he devoured his bread roll in the manner of a man who hasn't seen food for days.

“Not at all,” I murmured, aware that a pair of eyes were roving down my bare back now.

“What?” I came to, suddenly. “What animals?”

“Well, only the ones down at your place, obviously. The main herd are taken care of by Ron, my farm manager, but we've always kept a few down at the cottage.”

It came to me in a flash that this was what Alex had cannily glossed over when he'd mentioned “keeping an eye on the animals.” What he'd agreed with Piers and Eleanor—as no doubt part of our rent—and why he'd gone a bit pale when he'd seen the bulls. We were looking after them.

“You want us to feed the bulls?” I breathed.

Piers threw back his head and roared with laughter. I heard my other neighbour stifle a laugh too. Didn't he have anyone else to talk to?

“They're not bulls, they're Longhorns,” he explained. “Terribly tame and very sweet-natured. We've always bred them here. Got a few exotic sheep too.”

Visions of bellydancing sheep sprang, confusingly, to mind.

“Oh. Right. And what do they eat, these Longhorns?”

“Four bales of hay a day as a rule,” he said airily, “which you just pop in the roundels for them. It's all in the barn. Butter?”

“Oh. Thanks.” I took a knob. Well, that didn't sound too taxing. “And the sheep?” I enquired nonchalantly, as if feeding sheep was something I did in my sleep.

“The sheep are just on grass, which is where the cows will be soon. It's just taking its time to come through. You don't have to bother with them. The ewes are lambing, of course, but we've never had a problem with Jacobs. Won't be asking you to stick your hand up any twats, if that's what you're worrying about—ha ha!”

“Ha ha, no, quite.” My eyes bulged in horror as I lunged for my wine glass.

“Obviously the silkies need corn in the morning and then Layers Pellets at night, but nothing more than that.”

He was talking a foreign language now. What the hell was he on about?

“I'm not much of a fan myself. Prefer a good old Black Rock pullet, but Mummy's always liked them. Frightfully good sitters. Prolific layers too.”

“Oh—the chickens!”

“That's it. Silkies. Exotic breed.” He looked at me doubtfully. “I say, are you sure you can manage? Only I can ask Ron to give a hand if not.”

“No, no.” I straightened my back, and my resolve. If Alex had said we could do it then we bloody well could. “I'll be fine. My, um, aunt farms, actually.”

“Really?” He looked surprised. “Yes. Aunt…” I looked around wildly. A portrait of a woman who looked a bit like the queen hung opposite me. “Elizabeth.”

“Right. Whereabouts?”

“Whereabouts?”

“Yes, where does she farm?”

I paused. Gave this some thought. “America.” Somewhere far away. Far, far away.

“Ah. What does she farm?”

Yes, what
did
she farm, Imogen, this mythical American aunt of yours? Fields of billowing corn sprang to mind, like the ones in
The Waltons
, or
The Little House on the Prairie
, but I couldn't think what animals she might have. Then I remembered a chap called Bill, who I was pretty sure dabbled in farming.

“Buffalo.”

Piers looked astonished, as well he might. Golly, were they wild? I wasn't sure.

“Buffalo! Oh well, you'll be fine with our little herd then,” he mused, as happily, our starters arrived, causing something of a diversion. Piers contemplated his plate solemnly. “Ah yes, of course,” he said abruptly. “Mozzarella.”

I looked down at my own starter. “No, feta, I think.” I speared a bit of cheese.

He turned to me astonished. “Greek buffalo?”

I stared at him, at a loss. Greek buffalo? What the devil was this man talking about? Was he on drugs? Happily his attention was attracted at that moment by his other neighbour, a toothy woman in maroon silk, who wanted to know what sort of martingale he hunted in.

“Sounds like a plucky little woman, your aunt,” said a low, lilting voice in my ear. I turned to find a pair of dark eyes twinkling at me. “Cheese making's the devil of a job.”

I regarded him imperiously. “I'm sorry?”

“Your aunt Lizzie. With the buffalo herd.”

“Don't be ridiculous, you don't farm buffalo for cheese,” I spluttered, “you farm them for—for meat.”

His eyes widened. “I didn't know that. Like moose?”

I looked into his wide brown eyes. Was he mocking me? Did Americans farm moose? I wasn't sure. His voice had a strong Irish lilt to it.

“Yes,” I said decisively reaching for my glass. “Just like moose.”

God, these pants were tight. I'd only had a glass of champagne and picked at my starter and they were killing me. Was I going to pass out? I slid down in my seat, trying to perch my bottom on the edge of the chair and straighten my body out a bit.

“Are you all right?”